Gender-Swapping Time Machine
by craple
Summary: "Oh my god Lyds," squeaks Stiles, banging on the bathroom door. "There's a younger, male-version of Professor Hale sitting on the couch!" the banging stops, then, "And she's – he's? – like, super hot!"


first contribution to the teen wolf fandom. cheers!

* * *

Laura Hale substitutes for Mr. Harris' chemistry class, which is totally awesome, since the said sick teacher acts like a total douche most of the time. Stiles doesn't like him much, although he supposes he has his father to blame for that. Except his father is the best father in the world, what with him being the kickass Sheriff, so Stiles doesn't.

When Miss Hale steps into the classroom, Stiles thinks he's fallen in love. If it's possible to have your heart divided into two big pieces equally-sized, then Miss Hale has made a nest inside his second heart, as Lydia occupies the first one and she has been since the third grade.

Miss Hale is young, not much older than the entire students combined, probably in her mid-twenties. She has this gorgeous flowing brown hair, dimples all girls would kill for, her lipstick soft-pink and natural. Her eyes are the most stunning Stiles has ever seen too; somewhere between light green and electric blue, probably silver even, and he wonders if they're lens or not.

Also, her legs – long, covered in black stockings and tight short skirt legs – and black boots. Seriously, who wears laces-patterned stockings to High School? Not that it's inappropriate or anything, the black leather jacket and the white button-down shirt underneath is anything but. Stiles is really in love with her, so hard, already.

"Good morning class," singsongs Miss Hale sweetly. "As you might have been informed on Saturday, I will be your substitute teacher for the rest of the week. My name is Laura Hale, and I'd rather you call me Professor Hale." At the last statement, Professor Hale puffs out her chest proudly, her face happy and bright and pretty.

On the front row, where the love of Stiles' life, the perfection that is Lydia Martin sits, raises her dainty perfectly-manicured hand up. "Do you have an uncle-complex syndrome?"

Everyone looks at her at once. Professor Hale blinks in confusion. "Whatever makes you think so, Miss Martin?"

"Well, Peter Hale is the only one with the Professor title in your household, correct? And he's your uncle, thus." When Lydia finishes, Stiles almost sighs in adoration. She really is the most perfect human being ever alive, he thinks.

He also thinks that Professor Hale would be angry, but she's not. She looks amused, more than anything. The corner of her eyes crinkles, her pupils lighten in amusement. It's an attractive look.

"To answer your question, no, Miss Martin, I do not have an uncle-complex. I am simply over-confident on my ability to be a professor before I reach forty."

Tilting her head aside, she adds, "Though I must admit that my uncle is a rather hot specimen. Overly clever too, it's a bit unfair, is it? Anyway," she pushes a bunch of spreadsheets aside, gestures toward the nearest student – Greenberg, the unfortunate soul, as usual – to give them to the rest of the class.

Long continuous pained groans fill the classroom almost immediately. Professor Hale simply smiles and continues,

"Mr. Harris has given me the ultimate task that is your weekly test. Since I just got here, can't change his rules of giving you these _really_ complicated questions, so don't put the blame on me. I promise though, if your scores are good, I'd treat two of you to Brunch."

Cheerful, excited cheers break out at that. Stiles joins in the round of applauses, already imagining having to sit beside either Laura or Lydia at the Brunch, which is something he pretty much would die for.

As Greenberg closes in on him, Stiles snatches one of the spreadsheets then gets to work, quick as lightning.

* * *

Lunch at Brunch is totally awesome, and Professor Laura Hale (Stiles has taken a liking to that name, as much as Laura does) is, hands-down, the most awesomest teacher _ever_. Not just because she asks for permission sheets, signed and agreed to by the creepy Principal Argents, also for the fifteen different kinds of pastries she bought for them.

'Them' being, of course, Lydia and Stiles. Predictably – in Stiles' mind anyway; Douchey-Mr. Harris thinks of tests' scores as something personal, private, that must be hidden with the utmost secrecy one can utter – which causes him to be on the receiving-end of his classmates' ice-melting-death-glares.

"Can't say I'm surprised with the outcome," Professor Hale says. "I've read like, all the students' records. You two are the most impressive ones, currently. I'm still on page a thousand and three, eleventh grade." She waves her hand dismissively and shoves three curly fries into her mouth.

Stiles watches in awe, chews on the practically roasted meat of his burger slowly. He's still trying to impersonate Lydia's eating-process, consisting of elegant movement of her fingers over the silverwares plus the twenty-chews-before-swallowing thing his kindergarten teacher taught him, when Laura clears her throat.

"So, here's the thing," she starts, voice goes serious. "I'm sure both of you are aware of the Science Competition held two towns away? We need participants from our school, and since, you know, both of you like, probably already knows of the twelfth year's academic materials, I think you will be the perfect candidates. What do you think?"

When they both agree through the awesomeness that is telepathy – Stiles has hamburger _with extra cheese_ shoved up his mouth, okay, and Lydia doesn't talk while she eats; it's like, a rule that makes Lydia, well, _Lydia_ – Laura sighs, heavy as iron, like she has a massive truck filled of irons lifted from her shoulders.

"Thank god, cause, you know, this is not exactly professional, but when I was drunk from stress like, a week ago? I drunk-dialed my cousin who handled the competition and accidentally signed your names up, so, ah."

Lydia's bitch-face tells him that she is unimpressed by the situation as much as Stiles is.

It still doesn't make him less-smitten of Laura though, simply for the fact that she is awesome and the best teacher in the entire universe.

* * *

"I'm telling you, if someone really does create a time-machine with enough manpower and this age's components, it'd be a terrible mess! Something terrible _could_ happen you know, like –"

"Mutilated body parts? Are we still talking about time machines here, or have we drifted off into another Harry Potter corner?" Laura cuts off amusedly, laughs when Lydia rolls her eyes.

" – like instead of going back to the past – or the future – our body is the one that _goes_! Constant transformation without our knowledge, and who knows, maybe women will grow dicks and men will lose theirs, and have vaginas instead!"

Dead silence greets his statement, with Laura pausing midway to unlock the door to her apartment, and Lydia blinking.

"I don't think that is even remotely _possible_," says Lydia. She's frowning this time, which means she's taking Stiles' words into consideration, which, freaking wow.

It's Laura's turn to roll her eyes.

"You guys wait in the kitchen while I take some stuff from the living room, okay?" she tells them, hanging her coat. Laura can literally hear Stiles' frown without looking. "Why the living room?"

"Because that's where I keep my gender-swapping-time-machine," Laura deadpans, and chuckles when Stiles huffs and Lydia snickers. At least they really are walking into the kitchen without more questions. Progress!

She ignores her brother's sleeping body sprawled over the couch, dead to the world as he usually is. Glares pointedly at a dozen boxes of chocolate, nine of them at least are empty.

He usually does this when he's lonely; lurks and broods at Laura's house, or Natalie's or Aidan's, or if he's sick of their sibling-bonds, goes to Peter and geeks-out together with their beloved uncle. It's a bit disturbing, most of the times.

Shaking her head fondly, Laura decides to do something with Derek's shy (not that she's going to say that aloud, good god, no) personality. Like, introduce him to Stiles, maybe, seeing as Lydia would probably send him running anywhere-but-here. Stiles though…

Yeah, _definitely_ introducing him to Derek.

* * *

The first thing that comes to Stiles' mind when he enters the living room is: _holy shit, gender-swapping-time-machine totally _exists_!_

Second thought is that, Laura's future – or past? He doesn't look older, but Stiles' dad always says that sleeping people look infinitely younger than their conscious self, so – gender-swapped-self is completely, utterly _hot_.

Magazine-porn-models type of hot. Overloaded hotness sort of hot. The hottest thing Stiles has ever seen in gayporn, _and_ real life, sort of hot.

But, because Stiles loves Laura, is a nice person, and completely freaked out on how to bring Laura back, he runs straight to the bathroom Lydia occupies.

"Oh my god Lyds," squeaks Stiles, banging on the bathroom door. "There's a younger, male-version of Professor Hale sitting on the couch!" the banging stops, then, "And she's – _he_'s? – like, super hot!"

He doesn't wait for Lydia to open the door before rushing back to the living room.

"Professor Hale? Professor Hale? Oh my gods, _Professor Hale wake up_!"

The same, two pale electrifying eyes open groggily, and look at him. Male-Laura looks at him and just. Stares. He stares. And stares.

"Um," Stiles says, stupidly, then he – she? – blinks twice.

Something akin to growl gets past Male-Laura's lips. Very, _very_ nice lips. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"Oh god, were you concussed as well?! Jesus, I told you this age's time-machine is impossible, completely _unstable_ and – "

"What."

"It can _kill_ you Laura! And now you're all male and growly and stubble-ish and younger, _definitely_ younger – and oh my god, I'm a horrible person, but how does it feel to lose one's reproduction organs, man? I mean, I can call you man, right? Since you're all, uhh, you know."

Male-Laura's unimpressed stare bores hole through Stiles' head, it rivals Lydia's.

"Huh," Stiles says, leaning closer, smoothes the wrinkled lines between Laura's suddenly very dark, very expressive eyebrow with his thumb. "Don't remember your eyebrows are this thick either," murmurs Stiles, more to himself than anybody else.

Male-Laura's lips curls into a confused questioning frown. Stiles feels sorry for the guy, he really does. Not only did she grow a dick, she doesn't know what the hell is going on. It's horrible, barbaric, completely unacceptable, and –

The sound of something hard crashing on to the tiled floor makes them nearly jump out of their skins, heads snapping toward the source to find Laura, gaping like a fish at the sight before her.

She blinks quickly, making sure that she is not under hypnosis of any kind, and that yes, Stiles is _touching_ Derek – _the_ Derek who doesn't like to be touched by _anyone_ other than pack, _that_ broody growly Derek – and _yes_, Derek has his fingers curling around the waistband of Stiles' jeans.

Talk about awkward.

Clearing her throat unnecessarily loud in the sudden stillness of the room, Laura smiles, says, "I see you have met," then continues in a _totally_ non-judging tone, "And I see that the two of you have, ah, gotten _friendly_ with each other, in the last eight minutes I'm gone."

Derek seems to realize the reality (cruelty, because she is so _not_ skipping this out) of the situation, since he takes his hand back and, holy mother of god, _flushes_. Face goes red and hot, all the way to the tips of his ears, down to his chest. Derek freaking Hale _is blushing, Jesus Christ_.

Stiles gapes at her like she's at the wrong here, which she _isn't_.

"But – I thought, I thought he was you from the past!" he squeaks out, trembling slightly. Laura can taste the embarrassment coming off him in strong waves.

Well, Laura sighs. It's _partly_ her fault, she supposes, for not introducing them sooner.

"Okay, tell me what happened." At Stiles' widely-parted lips and twitching body, Laura cuts off, rather snappishly, "From the _top_, Stiles, and go _slow_, because _clearly_, Derek doesn't look like he understand the situation either."

Stiles starts rambling anyway.

* * *

also: author may or may have not been drunk when one wrote this. there is also possible hate toward author's chemistry teacher, which. yeah.


End file.
